


Get Hurt

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: AU Where Doc Hudson is Alive, Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Angst, Anonymous Sex (mentioned), Doc is an Unreliable Narrator, Drinking, First Time, Homophobic Acts (mentioned), Homophobic Language, Humanized Cars, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, NASCAR, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Rimming, Self-Hatred, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 22:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17968844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: You have three Piston Cups, a broken heart, a bum knee, and the folks of Radiator Springs, who know better than to ask you about the other three things.





	Get Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Little known fact: Cars 3 is my favorite Pixar movie and I ship the HELL out of Doc Hudson and Lightning McQueen and staunchly refuse to acknowledge that Doc is canonically dead. I've jokingly been saying I was gonna write a fic about them since the movie came out, but didn't think it would actually happen because!!! they're Cars! And that's weird! But I've been having this weird period of time when I can't write smut, and our kitten (sadly not the one named Lightning McQueen but the other one) woke me up in the middle of the night and in my delirium, I plotted this Doc/Lightning PWP because apparently I'm some sort of metal furry or transformer or whatever. 
> 
> Anyway, who knew this thing would be the story to unlock my smut-writing abilities again. I'm not questioning it! I'm just embracing it! You should too! I listened to the Gaslight Anthem record Get Hurt on repeat and wrote this in two days and I'm not sorry! 
> 
> Some warnings there aren't really tags for: this is not a daddy kink fic, not explicitly, but there are some very questionable and loaded and more than suggestive uses of the titles "Old Man" and "Son." I know. I'm sorry. Also, I did tag internalized homophobia but I want to emphasize what an enormous part of the story it is. There are several instances of the F slur, not in dialogue but in Doc's internal monologue. There are also mentions of homophobic acts which are worse than microagressions but don't actually qualify as violent hate crimes. They take place in the 50s and are references in Doc's memories, alongside the gay cruising and anon sex, etc. Yes Cars is a kid's movie but this story is dark and graphic and angsty so be safe. 
> 
> Lastly, this is not betaed. My lovely amazing wonderful beta is busy with my Big Bang and I'm trying to get more comfy publishing imperfect works, and I think this is a good place to practice since likely NO ONE is going to read this. 
> 
> Thank you everyone!

 

You have three Piston Cups, a broken heart, a bum knee, and the folks of Radiator Springs, who know better than to ask you about the other three things. You don’t have a lot else, and you try to be ok with that. It’s alright, you think, because old men who are destined to be great only should be for a single moment, like the buttercups pushing up from cracked red earth after a rain, cheery yellow so fleetingly before they crisp and die in the sun. You’re humbled by that greatness, however brief, and you’re resigned to emptiness and mediocrity and determined, drought resistant desert weeds for as long as you have left.

Then, McQueen speeds into your life, and leaves tire tracks. Without warning, you have him, too. Another thing the folks of Radiator Springs know better than to ask you about.

It’s good they don’t. After all, you have no real words for it. Or, you _do_ , but not the sort anyone would want to hear. You let them believe you love him the way you should: purely, paternally. As his mentor. It’s only you, the four walls of your lonely bedroom, and sometimes the cab of a racecar who know otherwise. The base and filthy reality. 

It’s nights like these, though, when you wonder if McQueen knows, too, and he’s just keeping the secret for you, quiet and pitying the way men are these days. It’s preferable to fire and fists and slurs airbrushed on your car hours before a race, you know this. But something about it makes you so _ashamed_. To think he _notices_ the way your eyes linger, the way they lock onto his bitten lips as he chews them behind the wheel, making the slick pink dimple under an incisor. The way your restless hands long so desperately to smooth down the unruly mess of strawberry blonde hair that gets rucked up in back after he pulls his helmet off after a race, that you must clench them in your own trousers, white knuckled. You’re used to hiding your tells, concealing them like a gambler. But still there are nights, like tonight, when he catches your gaze and holds it, the corner of his mouth quirked up over the neck of his beer bottle. Like he sees you, and he's tacitly saying _It’s ok, old man. I don’t mind. Flattered, really. Sort of a compliment._

You shake your head, trying to clear it, even though you’re one neat whiskey in, so you’re anything but clear. The two of you are sharing drinks in celebration, since he’s just won the first race of this weekend’s Grand Prix in Long Beach. It’s a tentative celebration, since you have one more day of racing, but things are looking good so far. He’s in _your_ more modest room, and he’s he’s relaxing on the built in couch with his leg kicked up lazily onto the table, wearing the same baggy, sponsorship emblazoned black jumpsuit and snackback he wore to do press in. You can smell the diesel and sweat on him and so you bring your glass up to your mustache, inhaling the bite of bourbon instead. It should scour everything away but still, you’re wondering if he _knows._ If _that’s_ why he's looking at you so carefully, half-smirking under the brim of his hat. 

You look away. 

“Awful quiet tonight, Doc,” he says after a long pause, sitting up and setting his empty beer bottle down on the table with a clink. 

Long Beach glitters behind him in a diamond sprawl just beyond the bay window, so many lights, and it makes you want to close the blinds to block them out, like so many prying eyes. “Just thinking,” you say, swirling the contents of your glass. 

“Any tips? Feedback? Pointers, observations? You’re usually _thrilled_ to tell me everything I did wrong after a race,” he says, reaching for another beer from the six pack. 

You push his hand away, heart leaping at the contact between skin, even if _you_ initiated, _you_ touched. “C’mon, quit with this shit. It’s gonna give you a headache.” 

“There he is,” McQueen says, grinning. “Pour me a finger of whiskey, how about that? Good compromise?” 

You nod, smiling reflexively flipping the remaining glass and pouring a bit more than a sloppy shot’s worth into it. “Sure. You won, deserve a man’s drink.” 

“Hm,” McQueen says, taking it, eying the rich amber inside with a hard to pin down sort of darkness flickering in the pupils of his eyes. Then they shift up to hold your own, and he says “Do I?” before sipping. 

The way he says it, the testy weight, sends a pang of something horrible into your gut. He knows, or else you’re paranoid. Either seems so possible, but you think you’re pretty good at _reading_ folks, finding the meaning _between_ the lines, not just spinning your wheels and making shit up out of fear. You wouldn't have listed this long if everything you did was fear-driven. He’s _pushing_ however subtly, that much you’re almost sure about, and you wonder what he expects you to _say_ about it. _Yeah, I’m queer, you got me, kid. Yeah, it would have ruined my racing career if the crash hadn’t. And no, don't apologize, you_ don’t _understand, you have no fucking idea what it’s like because it’s_ easy _for kids like you. With your pretty girlfriends and million dollar smiles and your catch phrases. So, what could I say about it that could_ possibly _be relevant to_ your _life,_ your _career?_

 _“_ You did good today,” is what you end up saying, standing up and clapping McQueen on the shoulder as you head to the window, looking out upon the city one last time before drawing the curtains tight. “I don’t have anything else to say, not right now. Don’t fix what isn’t broken. Race tomorrow like you did today.” 

He gets up and follows you, like a ghost. You can feel the heat of him close to your back and you wait to turn around, because you won’t know what to do with this proximity. But he doesn’t move, so you’re left with no remaining option. This is what you’re good at, your legacy before you met him. Crashing, self destructing. You’re built to get hurt. 

McQueen has lost his hat and his hair is a mess, oily and sweaty. His eyes are hazy and too close, studying you as he sways, thumbing over the rim of his hotel glass too-full of whiskey. “You know, we have more in common than you think. There might be things—things you haven’t even _thought of,_ you know. Sometimes I feel like you just. Don’t want to open up, though. But you have so _much_ , Doc. To offer.” 

You don’t know what to _say,_ to that. You’re sure you’ve thought of everything you might have in common. Every single thing you might have to teach him. Every way in which you can be a mentor. 

There are just things you’ve dismissed, of course, because they’re ugly, and he’s golden. And you’d hate yourself if you ever laid a dirty hand on his shining skin just to tarnish it out of selfishness. You’re about to tell him to finish his drink, to go to _bed,_ rest up for tomorrow, when he sets the drink down, shaking his head. Then you’re about to make a joke to dispel the terrible darkness falling over the room when he presses up against you, cages your body in with his arms, flushed face burning up where its buried in the ditch of your neck. It’s a hug, you think. That’s what most people call it. You try to slow the frantic, terrifying thud of your heart, but it seems dead-set on busting out through your chest, staining the cotton button up you wore to look presentable in splattered red. _Hugs happen between people, they don’t mean shit_ you try to tell your body, but then McQueen opens his hot, wet mouth over your pulse, and you stop being able to formulate coherent thought all together, because he’s _here_. This forbidden flesh, soldered to your own. His chest tight against yours, his arms looped firm around your back, his breath rising and falling in frantic gales to match your own panic. You inhale the sweat and youth and gasoline from his hair and it’s hard to imagine a single thing other than how badly you want to kiss him. “I know about you,” he says, breath rough, snagged to nothing against your skin as his hand tightens, makes a fist in your shirt. “I know. You don’t have to keep it from me. Or pretend. I—oh _god_ , I want—“ 

You grip him back, you can’t help it. He’s shaking and that makes you shake and all you can do is shake together. You clutch at the soft damp of his hair, tangling your fingers so you could pull it if you tried. He smells so good and raw it makes you dizzy, but you want more, you have for so long it’s probably driven you at least half-mad by this point, which is why you’re hallucinating him coming onto you in a hotel room. “If you tell me what you want,” you murmur like a confession, nails against his scalp, lips at his temple. “Tell me carefully. Because —“

“Because what?” he huffs, reduced to trembles against you. You don’t know what’s happening, there's whiskey and city lights and McQueen, solid in your arms, so certainly you can hardly write yourself out of them. “Because you’ll take something? Lose control? Please— _please_. I want that. I want to see. I’ve been _trying_ to tell you, that I want that,” he says, and you have no idea what to construct from his, what sort of narrative to build. You want an escape hatch at the same time you desperately _don’t,_ because you love him, and you’re good at this. Getting hurt. 

He tits his head, his lips towards yours, his breath coming out in hot, tremulous gales. It smells like Corona and whiskey and that infernal summer-smell boys have about them: a newness, copper-bright and fresh, like cut grass, like egg yolk, like sunshine. You have not inhaled that scent from the breath of a boy in so fucking long you want to cry, to collapse against him, to pin him to the window with Long Beach sprawling beneath and tell him _don’t play with me. Don't run. I’ve played so much and run so far and you are the best thing I've ever seen or dreamt about so please, please don’t pretend I can touch, if I can’t._

He exhales, and you suck it up. So hungry as he curls one arm around your lower back and presses your brows together, like this is a slow dance and you are at a wedding. “Don’t fuck around, kid,” you tell him, eyes shutting so tight so fast you see stars. He’s warm against you, inescapably real. You never even _hoped_ to have him so close, so the reality is dizzying. McQueen is the platonic ideal you’ve placed forever out of your reach, and he’s licking his lips now, he’s fingering up the notches of your spine through your shirt like you’re not old, and broken, and hurting. 

“M’not fucking around. I’m not— god, _Doc_ ,” he hisses, pushing a knee up between your legs, making the whole world tilt just so you’re off balance, and everything is on fire. “Why won't you let me in?” 

You laugh, holding your head back, tearing away from him so you can breathe. This is all too much, too painful, and there’s nothing else to do but force yourself to breathe. “Because I’ll get hurt,” you admit, even though you hate admitting things. _Pretty boys like you always hurt, you think I’ve never been here before? You think you’re the first?_ But then, McQueen _is_ the first, in so many ways. The first in the long time, the first since you thought you’d frozen over and nothing could melt its way inside. 

“No,” he says, like he’s certain, like he _knows_ better than you, somehow. And then you’re tilting down to look at him but before it can happen the impossible is rushing in like a flood, like a train, and Lightning McQueen is kissing you. 

He’s desperate, and messy, and hungry. You have to pin his tongue with your own and wrestle him up against the wall, hands on his elbows as he touches you like you’re the sea and he’s parched. _Salt,_ you think _I can’t quench anything,_ but it doesn't matter. He’s licking into you so deep you’re dissolving. He tastes like beer and whiskey and summer and _boy_ and you love him, have loved him in vain for so very long, having him bite your lip and fit himself to the fever of your hands is like absolution. He's young, and this probably means nothing to him, but for you, it’s like the final drink before you’re cut off, the last call, a dance at sundown for your last dime fed to the jukebox. He moans into your mouth, and you swallow it, and the tails of your scrunched-shut eyes are wet. “See,” he says, lips moving against yours, frantic hands sliding down your sides to your belt. “It’s good, right? I don’t know anything about this sort of thing but, I could learn. You could show me.I want to _learn,”_ he prays, and you kiss him just to silence him, because if too many long hungered for dreams come true in a single night, you might get spoiled, and you’ve never been spoiled before. 

“Slow down,” you tell him, trapping his body with yours, kissing the corner of his mouth, smelling his breath and wishing there were a way to choose to die inside a single moment, to select your grave. “You kiss like you race,” you rasp, and it comes out so much calmer and steady than you feel. 

He wheezes, rolls his hips, clutches up the sinewy planes of your forearms, fingers slender and pale in the thatch of silver hair. “Slow me down,” he begs in a dark, thick voice, like something from a fantasy, the filthy, base things your mind comes up with when you can’t sleep and he’s all you can think about. _Jesus,_ you think, whole body shaking in time with your heartbeat. You kiss him, and you kiss him. Scrub his sweet lips raw with your beard, cupping his hot cheek with your hand, thumbing over his cheekbone, holding him fast so you can stop him, suck his tongue until he relents, _keep_ him here in this moment. If he _stays,_ he might leave. It’s a gamble, but you won’t kiss a boy who’s only kissing you to escape. You need him here, in his body, you need to be _certain_ he knows what he’s doing. 

There are his teeth in your lip, his heartbeat under your spread palm. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he murmurs, and your heart crumbles like limestone. Even easier, like sugar, sweet and weak. You thumb into his mouth and he sucks, just like that. 

“God,” you say, fucking two more fingers into the plush wet of him, stunned by how blown his eyes are, the pink ring of his lips as he slides up and down. He's wet and drooling and he’s looking you straight in the eye and you’ve been here before, some years back. Touching boys who swore they wanted it, before they tried to break the windows of your car on race day, knife your tires. But it feels different with McQueen, who _knows_ you. Not just your sordid, half-hidden past but your _present_. The way you embrace him after a win, the way you wink at him, across the room during press conferences when they’re trying to give him a hard time. The way your hand lingers on the small of his back, even when you don’t want it to. Maybe his certainty is fueled by the desperation he’s sensed in _your_ touch. Like your hunger will guide his home. Or maybe he just _wants_ this, purely. It sure feels like that, with the way he’s gripping your hips, the slick of his tongue curling around your fingers as you stare down at him, needy and broken open. It feels like it, but it seems so _impossible._ Boys like this _don’t_ want you purely, they _can’t._ It’s a mess for them, always, nothing comes pure without blood. “You almost have me convinced,” you grind out with a huffing laugh, bending to lick the filthy junction of your fingers and his mouth, where you’re still tucked away. 

He pulls off, leaves your hand shining with spit. 

“What do I need to _do,”_ he says, palm coming warm and sudden to cup you through your trousers, where you’re hot and hard, aching for him. It stuns you to be touched there without the appearance of terror or symbolic wright, McQueen so effortlessly feigning fearlessness, because you cannot believe these sorts of things can happen without fear. “To really convince you?” 

You shake your head in disbelief, cradle his face, and kiss him. He tilts into the saliva damp stretch of your fingers and groans messily, hand pressing more certainly to your cock. He squeezes you, palm clumsy, and the clumsiness just turns you on more, brings so many memories back to you, hot and messy and raw and painful. He doesn't know what he’s doing but he's trying anyway, and you can’t _believe_ this, you must be dreaming. A dream, a dream to end all dreams until he unbuckles your belt and slides his hand inside, deep and low so he's cupping your balls, gently, firmly. “Fuck,” You stutter out, stumbling into him, breath caught in your throat. “Son, I—”

“ _Yes,”_ he hisses, wrapping needy fingers around your shaft, pulling on you, licking the stubble of your cheek like an animal as he feels your cock out. “You can call me that. You can call me whatever you want.” 

Your mind is buzzing too much to for a coherent thought but as you press him up against the wall you _feel_ he’s hard, too, and just _that alone,_ just _knowing_ he’s feeling a fraction of what you are gives you the strength to kiss him again, rub your your fingers back over his sweet gasping mouth, sift them wet and hungry up into his hair. “I want you in bed,” is what you manage to say, even though it burns on the way out, even though you fundamentally cannot believe it’s possible. His kisses are so rough your lips are stinging, but then there’s the softest moment of him huffing out a breath into your mouth for you to inhale, sweet and tinged with liquor, and he smiles. You return it, without even realizing something could be so easy. 

“Now you’re talking,” he says, unzipping his jumpsuit, shouldering it off so you can see skin, and skin, and skin. Golden and kissable and your lips are there before you can stop yourself, mouthing over the jut of his collar bones you grab him, spin him around, put him where you want him. You back him into the bed and watch him collapse, mouth open like a wound to suture. “Doc,” he says, seriously, struggling out of the jumpsuit so both pale, toned shoulders are exposed. He’s freckled and you want to lick, to suck, to bite. You want him to arch under you and give you every inch, and he _might_ and that’s _terrifying._ The possibility McQueen is willing to give you very filthy, awful thing you've ever wanted, even the shameful tender ones. “You can fuck me,” he says, confirming your every fear, your every suspicion, eyes blown wide and blue like the whole sky. “You can fuck me however you want.” 

“Son,” you say again, because he likes it, and you want him for as long as he’ll stay, and you think he’ll stay longer if you repeat things he likes. His eyes flutter closed and he presses against you as you bear down upon him, grinding him into the bed. “You can’t _say_ things like that. Don't know how bad…how much I’ll take,” you breathe, inhaling desperately from his skin.

“Take it,” he says automatically, arching up, catching your mouth which has not ceased to be a shock. He tastes so _good_ , so rich with want. Then, he lewdly hooks his arm under his knee and pulls it towards his chest so he’s cracking himself open like a wishbone, exposing himself. He’s kicked out of his jumpsuit by now so all he’s wearing is a ribbed tank top and a soaked trough pair of briefs. And _fuck,_ have you dreamed of him like this, yearned for him like this. Begging for you in sticky white cotton, layers for you to peel back and taste, before tasting the real thing. “You think m’kidding, I can tell,” he rasps, head thrown back, throat rippling. “And I don’t know how to tell you I’m _not._ Except for this,” he murmurs, sneaking his fingers under the hem of his own briefs, where his cock is straining obscenely. It’s small to average sized even hard and you _love_ that. Something you can fit in your mouth and tongue until it’s leaking, and you swallow your spit, just thinking about it. You _want_ him, you love him. Every infuriating freckle, every flicker of muscle. You made him, and you want to ruin him, too. 

“You want me to fuck you?” you breathe, rubbing yourself against him, your cock into the ditch of his thigh and his body. You’re both wearing clothes but it breaks you none the less, makes you flex and leak into your trousers as you mouth over that freckled shoulder. “To be in you? Or is that just talk?” And this is teasing, it’s play. Stuff you’re pretending you can _do,_ as if your heart isn’t tight and pounding along with the rest of you. You palm down to his ass, cup it, grip it. The sweet, plump curve fits in your palm which seems impossible but here he is, rolling into it, gasping. 

“Please, fuck me,” he whines, throat a jagged, exposed line, mouth open and panting and kissable. “It’s not talk. S’all I think about. Your fingers, your cock, your tongue, _Doc,_ please. _”_

And _christ,_ your stomach plummets, you lose your mind. Every remaining hold up ceases to matter because McQueen is _begging_ you, he’s pushing his hips up to collide against yours, he’s chewing your lip and panting and coming apart. “You want it so bad, don’t you?” you admit brokenly, moving your hand between you to cup his cock through his briefs. It twitches where its trapped in the Y front, white-hot and burning under the weight of your palm as you press into him, curl your fingers around the longing heat. “Silly, desperate boy,” you say and it drags out of you, snags like lace over gravel. 

“Yes, _fuck,”_ McQueen gasps, rolling his hips to meet you, spreading his thighs wider to accommodate the breadth of your shoulders. “I want it.” 

You think of all the things you could do to him, things he’ll not only allow, but things he miraculously _wants,_ and your hand tightens around him, making him gasp. Possessed, you palm down his thighs, manhandle his pliant body so he’s spread out, exposed as you clamber down the bed and between his quaking quads. His is erection straining against the threadbare fabric of his briefs, which is nearly translucent where it’s clinging to his cockhead, and just the _sight_ of him _wanting_ so bad, this Calvin Klein, model-beautiful boy in your bed begging for you, makes your mouth water. You study him for a moment, wanting to commit this obscenity to memory so you can hold it close to your heart when you’re dying and he’s long gone, having returned to the sort of clean, tidy life you have never had. His shuddering breath, his pretty, flexing cock bowed down under white cotton. “You can,” he says in a ragged voice, reaching out and petting your gelled silver hair, and it sounds far away, under water, but still, you swallow, you listen. 

There’s a wavering moment where you inhale the heady scent of him from a few inches away, but it’s not enough, not _nearly_ enough, so before you even realize it you’re pitching forward and burning your face in damp fabric and breathing in desperately, mouth open, drooling. It’s _heaven,_ even better than you remember it. Strong and mouth-watering and spicy, sweat and boy and precum so salty you’re sucking the flavor of him out of the cotton, mouthing up his shaft like you might die if you don’t. 

McQueen groans, trembles, rubs himself against your face, and you _love_ it, love how much he’s giving you, love the filthy sounds he’s making. “Let me hear you,” you say before fixing your mouth over the tip and sucking him through his briefs, tonguing around it, making him buck before you pull off, breathless. “Moan for me, kid.” 

He throws his head back and cries out, and there’s only so much more you can take of his before you need to taste his skin, unencumbered. This is something you _missed,_ desperately, even if you struggle to admit it to yourself, save for within the privacy of your own longing, self deprecating fantasies. Being on your knees, holding a boy’s cock in your mouth, feeling it swell and choke you, the telltale twitch and pulse before shooting off. You loved the taste, the nervy humiliation of it, the raw, pure triumph of knowing you made another man feel good enough to lose himself, to choke out your name. You’ve considered ways to go about doing it again as an old man, Craigslist or bars in the city, sordid bathrooms, public parks. But it’s never seemed _worth_ it the danger, the loneliness of an anonymous encounter just to soothe the ache of loving a boy you’ll never have. 

But you _have_ him right now, panting, fucking up against your open mouth. A rush of overwhelm hits you so hard it’s like a sucker-punch to your gut, and you dig your fingers bruise-deep into his legs, eyes spilling over with sudden tears as you rub your cheek and lips all over him, wanting to get your fill, _needing_ it. “Please,” he murmurs, fidgeting with his waistband, sliding the hand that’s not fisting in your hair beneath it so he can touch himself, under the fabric and your needy mouth. “Can you—“ 

“Lift your hips,” you order, and as soon as he does you roll the wet briefs down his thighs, his cock springing heavy and red to his abdomen, balls drawn tight in a nest of coarse ginger-blonde curls. “Fucking perfect,” you breathe without even meaning to, and your voice sounds so _moved_ and run through with cracks you imagine yourself bleeding, just from the sound of it. He’s glistening, precum beading out of the slit as he pulls on himself. There’s about an inch showing over the top of his fist and it’s made for your mouth, you _need_ it, so with a ripped sound you’re ducking, you’re praying, you’re licking him up. 

He tastes like the best part of your past, the future you’ll never have because men like you don't get futures like that. You suck, and hold his thighs in an iron grip, and beg yourself to stop thinking about the past, and the future. You just want this, right now, McQueen’s leg hair crinkled down under the heat of your palms, his cock sweet and fat as you slide your mouth down it, gagging you’re going so deep. He’s small enough you can fit the whole thing down your throat, mustache and the tip of your nose nestled down into the musky thatch of his pubic hair. You drool onto him, lash your tongue on the underside before pulling up in a messy froth of saliva and curling your fingers around the base, holding him tight. “God, oh _god_ , Doc, fuck,” he moans, cupping the back of your neck, stomach muscles flickering under a layer of softness as he curls at his core, like a leaf under the desert sun. So gorgeous and golden and fragile and perfect, under your tongue like a bit of butterscotch, and you want him to melt, you want him in pieces. 

Holding his cock in one hand you touch him with the other, greedy and self indulgent like you’ve always wanted to. His sides, his ribcage, his puffy nipples drawn tight under the shift of his tank top. Then down again, the flickering planes of his abdominals, his tight calves, over the bony jut of his knee, which is strong and not broken, like yours is. You remember when _you_ were the golden boy old men would get off on pleasuring, the way they’d touch you with wandering palms, suck you off like your cock was candy. It felt good, to be worshipped like that, you’d _enjoyed_ it, and so you try to tell yourself there’s nothing wrong with turning into this sort of man, with falling to shameful knees and roving over him with base, dirty hands. Still, you keep worrying you’ve crossed a line, that you’re taking too much, so you pull off his cock and kiss from the inside of his thigh up to his navel, following the path of soft blonde hairs. “Is this ok? M’ not—“ _hurting you_ is what you want to say, but you know that’s not right so you try again, “You can tell me to slow down.” 

“No, _you_ keep telling _me_ to slow down,” McQueen reminds you, curling gentle fingers in your hair, looking down at you with wet eyes. “M’telling you to fuck me. I keep telling you that’s what I want.” 

You curse, shake your head, rub your face up into him again, scouring your lips on his pubic hair. “You don’t know what this is doing to me ,” you whisper against his skin, soft enough he probably can’t hear it. “Don’t know how bad I want it.” 

He rolls his hips and whimpers and chases the heat of your mouth where it’s pressed to his thigh, tongue laving. “Doc, please. Want you inside me.” 

And that, the way he keeps demanding and repeating it like it’s something he’s _thought_ about before, it _shakes you._ Slices deep and chars your core so you feel full of smoking ember. Because even back when you were beautiful and willing to take risks, you never _asked_ for that from a man, Not from one of your peers, clumsy and scared just like you, not from some experienced old timer in the bar bathroom who looked at you like your body was _built_ to be come inside. Asking to be fucked was so far beyond your wildest dreams, too humiliating and honest for you to even _imagine._ In your experience sex with with men happened in the dark, it was fumbling and clumsy and wonderful and terrifying, and every time it happened you swore it was the last time but you _couldn’t_ stay away so you'd always find yourself on your knees again, on your back again. But never with those _words_ in your mouth, never with the light on. Even when you were older and _knew_ what you were and thought about how good it might feel to be cored and hollowed out and filled up with heat like that, _asking_ for it never crossed your mind as something even remotely _possible._ And here he is, split like a wishbone, sweat-dewy gold skin bathed in the overhead light, not even _blushing_ or dropping his voice as asks, clear as day, for you to fuck him. He comes in, he leaves tire tracks, he changes everything for you, shatters your carefully built walls in a _moment_ like you’ve been hiding in plain sight for decades. He’s been looking at you like he _knows_ because he _does._ He knows and he wants it inside him, like an effigy, and you’re crying but you’re also there with him, stomach knotted, cock so hard in your trousers it _aches._

“Jesus _christ,_ son,” you say, pressing one last sloppy, open mouthed kiss to his cock as he keens, eyelashes fluttering. “Flip over.” 

He does, eagerly, so limber and young and obscene as he gets on his elbows, bends his knees, and pushes his tight little ass up into the air for you. Then, as if that wasn't enough to make your heart break and your stomach lurch in hunger, he reaches back with one trembling hand and pulls himself apart, fingers dimpling the cheek, hole dark and winking and right fucking there, _for you. “_ God,” you breathe, holding him apart, thumbs in the crease like he’s a peach. “Look at that. So fucking pretty, kid.” 

He rubs his flushed cheek into the bedspread, red against white, hair stuck in sweat chunks to his brow. “Yeah?” he asks, squirming.

“Prettiest I ever saw,” you assure him, rubbing over the furled pucker with your index finger, astounded by the softness, the give. And it’s true, he’s gorgeous, so vulnerable and desperate in this way you can’t even _comprehend_. You’ve fucked a few men this way, but never in your life has one rolled over and split himself wide for you to _look at,_ to touch. It was always in shadow, trying to hit a target blind, in the dark, with your mind half-clouded with booze or the fear someone might bust in and kill you both. You don’t even think about it as you kiss his hole, open-mouthed because there’s not a single place on his body you don't want to taste, fully and filthy so the bitterness lasts on your tongue an eternity. 

He’s not bitter here though, he’s salty-sweet and spicy, flexing against your tongue as he moans into the bedspread, backs his ass up into your face. “Fuck, your stubble,” he gasps, kicking back so you have to grab his leg, hold him in place. “Make me raw, please.” 

You sob into him, hungry as you suck at his rim, breach the ring of muscle with the tip of your tongue, eat him out hard and fierce and so desperate you don’t even care you look like a starved man having his last meal before the electric chair. You’ve never done this to a boy and never had a boy do it to you, and you've never felt something more feral or dirty or pure or holy and the combined mess of it has wiped you clean of guilt, of fear. McQueen is your _first_ and he is probably your last, so you will die here, you will drown in the musky, clutching heat of him, blood pounding in your ears so hard you can scarcely make out the litany of curses and moans muffled against the sheets. 

At some point he's shaking so hard he nearly collapses, but you follow his bucks and trembles, grab a pillow from the head of the bed and shove it under his hips so he can rub his cock against it. Your bum knee hurts and your jaw is numb and he tastes metallic and is so pink and swollen it makes you _ache_ every time you look at him, but the way he’s humping the bed tells you he _loves_ it, he needs it at bad as you do, so you don’t stop. “Such a sloppy, pretty hole,” you mindlessly grind out as you pull away, watching it flicker. Then you curiously press the blunt tip of your index finger against the rim and so _easily_ it sinks in to the second knuckle, stretched tight. “Fuck, look at you, taking me to well,” you murmur, awed as you crook your finger inside. McQueen is _hot_ inside, hot and soft and clutching, and you feel like you’re touching his _heart,_ counting the wild tattoo of beats as he fucks down onto your pillow, moaning wordlessly as you finger him open. You hold him open and lick the rim where your finger is tucked away neatly, and you almost _miss_ it but he gasps out “ _more,”_ voice in shreds. 

When you add another finger he starts writhing, pushing back against the pressure and cursing and _fuck,_ you need to feel his cock right now, you _need to know_ how hard he is from being touches like this so you reach around with your other hand and shove it between his body and the pillow and it’s just a few seconds of wild, hungry thrusting against your palm and then he’s coming, fierce and unexpected and wet and perfect. 

The feeling of his hole flexing madly around your fingers is the most beautiful thing. Better than his cock in your mouth, better than his lips puffy around your fingers when he sucked them. It’s reflexive and he can’t control them and it’s yours, all for you, private and tender. “Jesus son,” you choke out, pressing your face to the curve of his ass to steady yourself, stunned by the way his body is still snapping and bucking with the aftershocks, his come all over your fingers as you feel him, still hard and twitching. “So good. So good for me.” 

You feel him come down, his labored breath evening out, his hands clutching and loosening in the sheets. It’s moving to watch because it is so _different_ than how he is after a race. Then he’s adrenaline-high and taut and glittering, but this is so _soft,_ so supple. His eyes are shut tight and his mouth is parted and you rub the hand that’s not trapped under his dead weight down his back, where he’s sweat-damp and sticky. It occurs to you that this very well might be the end of whatever has just happened between you. He got what he want, he came, you fucked him like he begged you to, with your fingers, at least. You're still hard and dizzy and forever hungry for him as you will be for the rest of your life, but perhaps this is over, in every other way. He tried it, he got you out of his system, but he has a white picket fence to get back to. Even if he thinks he wants this, wants _you,_ he can’t sustain it. Not your wealth of pain, your history of bathroom floors and poppers and glory holes. It’s too dirty, too ugly. He wants something thrilling, not something broken and withered and afraid, still, even after all these years. 

Theres a moment where you wait, stroking down his spine gently, trying to get your fill before he realizes he’s sated his curiosity, or else discovers your broken heart and pock-marked past aren’t the answers to any questions he has about this, about loving men, touching them. You prepare yourself to be capsized, braced for a blow. 

Instead he rolls over and grins at you, lazy and hectic, that devil-may-care smile McQueen has perfected and trademarked and weaponized, but _more_ so, even brighter and sharper, like all the sunshine in the world has poured into him. You want to kiss it, so you do, white picket fence be damned. You’re going to impale yourself like shrike’s prey, because there are things you have never been able to resist about him.

“Hm,” he says against your lips, licking over them messily, which plunges a dangerous, hopeful knife into your heart, which is not used to hope but quite used to knives. “You taste like me.” 

_Like heaven, like youth,_ you think.“Well,” you say instead, gruff as you push a tentative hand into the wreck of his hair, stunned he’s not running yet. You grip it, like that might keep him here. “Makes sense. Just had my mouth on you, genius.” It’s an awkward, desperate joke but he doesn't laugh. He closes his eyes, inhales shakily. 

“I’ve never felt anything like that,” he breathes, lashes fluttering against the flush of his cheeks. “Never come so hard in my life.” 

And you don’t know what to say to that, you’re too hard, too lost, too scared. You should ask him what he’s thinking but you’re afraid to pry and find something you don’t actually want to know, so instead you study his lips, and try to memorize the soft, swollen shape of them. You're about to pull away when he reaches for you and palms over your cock, feeling you out through your unbuttoned trousers curiously, firm enough it makes the whole of your body tremble like a power line during a hurricane. “You don't have to do that,” you tell him with your air caught in your throat, even though you want his hands _desperately_ , want whatever else you can get of him before this strange lapse in his judgement passes. 

“I know,” he whispers, pushing a hand in past your waistband again, hissing as he curls his fingers around the length of your cock. You vision whites out for a moment, and you busy your face into his pulse, pretending this is something that can last. “M’not doing any of this because I _have_ to,” he says, thumbing over the crown of your cock, smearing the wetness in a cross like ash Wednesday. “M’doing it because I _want_ it. I don't know what else to tell you, old man. You’re so sure already, about whatever you think.” 

You scoff, heart pounding. “Kid…this is different for me, than it is for you. You gotta know that.” 

He fists over your cock, making your bad knee buckle, your weight drop down onto him. He’s so _small_ under you it feels like you’ll crush him so you shift away, and he lets go, pulling his hand back from your trousers, instead pushing it into your hair. “Why are you so _certain_ of that?” he asks fiercely, catching you eyes, holding them. They’re blue, just like yours, but so much _warmer,_ like he’s a cloud-scattered sky blaring over the desert and you are the icy grey of the sea before a storm. 

“Because I’m _old,”_ you tell him, only half of the truth because _and I’m_ gay feels just as unspeakable as _fuck me._ Too candid and raw and . There are things you know with certainty, but simply cannot _put_ words to without feeling flayed, dissected. _I’m gay_ is one of them, in spite of its technical truth. It’s easier to calling yourself queer, to call yourself a faggot, even. There’s a barbed quality to those words that have been slung at you, wearing them like armor hurts less than the weak, watery neutrality of _gay._ No one has called Lightning McQueen a faggot before, you’re certain of that, just as you're certain he’s not _gay,_ not like you are. He has other options, so many other paths to choose from. He can bend in half and pull his ass apart and beg for your tongue, but he'll never fucking understand the profound need to risk your life to bury your face there and lick. 

“Why does that matter?” he asks, brow furrowing, like he _actually_ doesn’t understand why the years which stretch between you change everything. 

“This isn't some experiment or tourist trip for me, kid. M’not a _rookie_ like you, this, right here, this is my whole life,” you explain, gesturing to the space between you, your hand and his stomach still sticky with his come like spilled blood. “M’not gonna stop _wanting_ you after tonight. And you’ll go home to your girlfriend and your normal life and I’ll—”

“No, no, no,” he says, reaching for you, touching your face, your throat. Where the salt and pepper stubble grows so fast you can never keep up with, where you’re probably so rough against his fingers, sandpaper and gravel and a head-stone not yet worn smooth by rain and wind. You flinch, but he keeps touching. “Listen. Sally _knows._ About this, about you. About how I feel,” he says, like that explains everything. You stare down at him, unable to process what that means, how on earth you’re supposed to gain insight into his experience with this information. “Fuck, Doc. M’just gonna say it,” he says then, biting his lip like he does behind the wheel when he’s losing a race but still determined to fix it. 

_Say it,_ you think, throat too tight to ask for the truth, cock still dizzyingly hard in this way that robs you of words, of logic. He’s pressing up into you, fitting your bodies too close you can’t think straight and you forget you're trying to hold out on him, so you’re breathing him in again, fixing your mouth to his skin because he’s _giving_ it to you. You suck on his pulse point, and feel it go erratic as it speeds under your tongue. He tilts towards you, presses his lips up against the shell of your ear and confesses, “I want to be your _boy,”_ low and wavering like a flame held to desperate breath, his hands sliding down your shoulders and tightening there. You feel his spent cock twitch against your stomach just from _saying_ this, and something about it chokes you up, overwhelms you. You cup his cheek, push your thumb gently into the heat of it, leave a bloodless print there. 

_My boy,_ you think, steady and repeating like a heartbeat as you push him back and kiss him hard, with tongue. He melts and lets you lick him apart, lets you grind against his thigh. “What does that mean?” You ask him as you tear away, pushing your brows together, thinking of the way he begs, the sounds he makes, how _incomprehensible_ it would be if all that was _yours,_ and not just on accident, not just for one messy night. _My boy._

 _“_ Want to be yours, want to—to _take care of you._ For you to take care of me. For you to _fuck me._ With your cock. Want you to fill me with your come because it belongs in me,” he murmurs, grinding all over you, feeling down your sides, greedy and messy and _god,_ fuck, he’s finished once already and _still_ he’s climbing you, rutting against you, mouthing at your jawline. 

“I don’t think it’ll fit,” you growl, encircling him in your arms, crushing him to your chest so his breath comes out in a wheeze against you. “You’re so fucking tight.” 

“It’ll _fit,”_ he hisses. “You’ll take it slow, feed it into me inch by inch.” 

“You’ve thought about how I might fuck my boy?” you grind out, and he gasps, clutches back at you. 

“So much. Dreamed about it,” he admits, hand creeping back to your cock again, like he can’t stay away.

And you think you get it, maybe. That you mean more to him than you could ever realize, his mentor on the track but outside it too, the lines blurred since the beginning, and not _just_ because of the ways in which _your_ want is fractured, too much. He’s allowed you to be more than a mentor, filling voids, building him up, guiding him, holding him to a standard no one else has. Maybe it makes _sense_ thathe’d want you in other ways, too, not just the _idea_ of you or the experience he imagines you have, but the reality. The hurt and the heartbreak and the rough edges that cannot be filed down or bent into submission.You don’t _believe_ him, or believe he can handle it, but perhaps loving him has made you cast his image in too pure and golden a light, and you’ve failed you to see him as he actually is, blinded. Maybe he hates the blackened bits of your history less than you do. Maybe he _wants_ that, even. So, you’ll try. To feed it to him inch by inch. 

You let go of him long enough to struggle out of your trousers, free yourself so he can touch you unhindered. His breath catches as you do so, and you kiss him while he's stunned like that, fit yourself into his palm. “Fuck,” he gasps, feeling you out, nipping at your lips. “What do you want? I’ll do anything. You can teach me, show me,” he breathes, mouth open and soft, hand curled firmly around you, holding your heartbeat. “Just tell me what you want.” 

You close your eyes, you cup his face between your palms and let your pulse hitch over how _good_ it feels, even if it stings, to hold him close. _Your boy,_ stubborn and insufferable, leaving tire tracks all over your skin like dirt, like ash. “I want you to fuck me,” you say, and you wait to get hurt. 


End file.
